Languageless
by Enrii87
Summary: Gokudera and Yamamoto are sent off on a slightly diplomatic mission to Istanbul on behalf of the Vongola Familgia, discovering feelings neither can put a name to. Rated T for safety.


The landing was anything but smooth.

"On behalf of Pegasus Airlines we would like to welcome you to Istanbul! We apologize for this slightly turbulent landing caused by the high-speed winds of –"

"Slightly turbulent my ass." Gokudera's fingers start fumbling with the tip of his tie. It has been over twelve hours since his last cigarette.

"Is that what she said?" Yamamoto asks. His English sucks and of course he doesn't speak a word of Turkish.

Gokudera decides to ignore him.

As they wait for their luggage to arrive Gokudera checks his cell phone for calls or messages from the Tenth. He never actually switched his phone off.

Yamamoto cracks up. "Maybe it was your phone causing all that turbulence!"

He gives Gokudera a big bro-hug with one arm while turning his own cell phone on.

The look Gokudera gives him could melt steel. Their bags show up right then. Yamamoto lifts his out of the rotating platform without a problem but Gokudera barely manages to move his an inch. Yamamoto steps in and fishes it out with little effort.

"Whoa, they _are_ heavy!" He says.

"Of course. You are carrying a pair of suits and pajamas while my bag is loaded with twenty pounds of explosives plus my own clothes."

The Vongola's contacts within the flight business had made this arrangement possible.

"Do you really need all those explosives?" Yamamoto asks.

Gokudera ignores him once again. He takes Yamamoto's bag since the taller boy has agreed to roll his heavy bag. There's a black car waiting outside for them, the driver is wearing a black suit with the Vongola's golden crest on his lapel.

"Good evening, my name Toghrul, I be your driver." His heavy Turkish accent almost causes Gokudera to pop an artery.

"Good evening." He says.

They hand him their bags. The massive Turk takes both at the same time and dumps them in the trunk unceremoniously. Gokudera flinches at the thought of those explosives being mishandled by such a neanderthal. The mid-April air is cool and clean yet Gokudera's body prefers smoke rather than oxygen. He asks the driver if he can smoke in the car.

"I hoping mister say that, I smoke very happy too." The Turk smiles and lights a cigarette for himself as they drive down the highway.

"Oh great, two smokers." Yamamoto rolls his window down.

"You no smoke mister?" The driver asks Yamamoto.

Yamamoto gives Gokudera a helpless glance.

"He doesn't speak English and no, he doesn't smoke either. How far is our hotel anyway?"

"Ah, your hotel very nice, yes, very nice. In front of the Galata tower, very closely to the Istiklal Avenue. You have very beautiful view of the Hagia Sophia from there. With this traffic it take forty minutes." The driver answers.

Yamamoto waits for a translation.

Gokudera sighs.

"Gokudera."

_That cologne…_

"Gokudera!"

Gokudera knows he has to wake up but doesn't want to.

"Goku-chan we're here and the driver is talking to me in English and I don–"

"Don't call me Goku-chan!"

That woke him up. Yamamoto chuckles.

Gokudera thanks the driver and has him carry the bags into the lobby.

"Welcome to Hotel Anemon!" Says the woman at the reception counter.

Her accent is bearable.

They're taken up to their room – 27, to Gokudera's amusement – on the second floor and given their purple access cards. The usher–whose name Gokudera can't pronounce–opens the door with his own master card and shows them around. The room is small. Very small compared to the other rooms the guardians have gotten while on missions. There are clearly two beds but they're so close together they might as well be one queen-size. There are three walls; the fourth is a window from the ceiling to carpeted floor. Their majestic view is a part of the harbor, the lights of the city on the other side of the Bosphorus, but mostly yellow brick since the frigging Galata Tower is right in front of them. There's a plaza in front of the hotel, at the base of the tower, where some Latin-Americans are playing music from their phones and dancing. Street cats dash from one side to the other, scaring American tourists.

"Awesome!" Yamamoto's smile stretches from one ear to the other.

The usher disappeared without a warning, leaving their bags near the door.

Gokudera checks out the bathroom which has – apart from a toilet, of course – two sinks; a rack of fluffy white towels; a bowl full of single-use bottles of shampoo, body gel, soap and –surprisingly– condoms; and a shower cabin with glass doors.

Gokudera lights a cigarette after discovering that the huge window opens up.

Yamamoto starts flicking through the channels on the TV.

"Man, everything's in Turkish. What a strange language!" He laughs.

"What did you expect? The NHK in Turkey?" Gokudera scans the menu for room service.

Yamamoto orders a chocolate Sunday, a hot chocolate and baklava, earning him a comment from Gokudera condemning him to a future with diabetes.

Gokudera orders a steak and a local salad which he can't pronounce, and a bottle of red wine, earning him a sheepish grin from Yamamoto.

The boys –or men? One never knows. What do you call a pair of eighteen-year-olds?– strip down to their underwear and eat their meal in bed, watching a painfully dubbed version of Cloud Atlas from the Pay Per View selection.

Yamamoto is soon confused by the movie despite it being in Japanese and falls asleep with his tray full of empty plates dangerously balancing on his stomach. Gokudera is fascinated by the movie and watches it until the very end, thankful for the sleeping Yamamoto unable to see his teary eyes during the most emotional scenes. As the credits roll Gokudera turns to Yamamoto, sleeping on the bed to his left, the one closest to the window, not a meter away from him.

He lays his tray outside the door and once he's back inside he kneels over Yamamoto to lift the tray from the boy's sleeping abdomen. Yamamoto tosses in his sleep, his left arm smacking Gokudera on the side causing him to almost drop the tray.

"_Che cazzo…_" He curses in Italian.

He leaves Yamamoto's tray outside the door only to return to the disturbing image of Yamamoto sprawled across a third of Gokudera's bed.

"It's gonna be a long week." Gokudera sighs.

He moves to the desk and opens his briefcase, which can only be opened with storm flames from his ring, and proceeds to read the documents inside. Tomorrow they'd be meeting up with the Boss of the Tüccar Famiglia at a shisha bar to discuss a possible alligeance with the Vongola Famiglia, afterwards–depending on the answer–they'd share a glass of champagne aboard a luxury ship on the Bosphorus, sponsored by the Tüccar Famiglia.

_But as of right now,_ the silverhead thinks, _I must sleep._

He's absolutely sure Mukuro made the arrangements for this hotel–the lady at reception had the unmistakable purple irises of someone under Mukuro's power–and Gokudera found himself hating the illusionist for it.

_He probably finds this funny._

Gokudera pushes Yamamoto into his own bed–or portion of bed–and forces himself under the tightly wrapped sheets. He can feel Yamamoto's breath on his neck; the feeling causes the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end.

"Gokudera."

The musky smell of sweat mixed with cologne…

_Five more minutes, please._

"Gokudera!"

The voice is rumbling on his left ear.

_Is my pillow talking?_

"Goku-chan!"

"Don't call me Goku-chan!"

Gokudera lifts his head abruptly. His right hand is resting on Yamamoto's abdomen while his head hovers a couple of inches above Yamamoto's chest. Gokudera twists his head uncomfortably to the left, the tip of his nose touches Yamamoto's chin.

Gokudera injects his voice with maximum authority "Yamam-m-m-oto"– his voice squeaks as if his balls are still in puberty freefall–_I'm already eighteen_! He thinks–so he clears his throat and starts over, three octaves lower – "This wouldn't happen if we had bigger beds with at least a meter of space between them! This is scandalous! I'll talk to the receptionist and see–"

Gokudera loses his train of thought at the sight of Yamamoto's brown eyes, so close to his.

A couple of seconds fly by.

"Gokudera?" Yamamoto grasps Gokudera's left cheek in his hand.

_Is he asking for permission? _

Gokudera rises into a half-sitting position and turns around, his stomach flat on the bed and the majority of his chest resting flat on Yamamoto's chest.

Neither one of them is sure of what to do next.

Yamamoto gets closer and Gokudera pulls back a quarter of an inch. Yamamoto looks down and sits upright.

"I'm sorry." Yamamoto smiles awkwardly, blushing slightly.

Gokudera always had a snappy comeback. Why was his wit failing him now?

The tips of his ears are on fire. Silence louder than a Tokyo night floods in. Nothing is as coherent as nothing.

Gokudera leans in and presses his lips to Yamamoto's. Dark fireworks go out in the back of his head and black dots dance behind his closed eyelids. They both forget how to breathe. It's a cautious kiss, like moving when you're awake next to a sleeping person.

Gokudera is also the first to pull away.

He feels strangely… worn out. Naked. Exposed.

Yamamoto reaches behind Gokudera's head with his right hand and pulls him in for another kiss, far more instinctual and passionate than the shy little attempt before.

Gokudera kisses back, swinging his right leg above Yamamoto's, combing through his spiky black hair.

Yamamoto's hand travels up Gokudera's back, under his shirt, while Gokudera's hands reach down to the loose waistline of Yamamoto's boxer shorts.

They toss and fumble around a little more before stopping to catch their breath.

An awkward pause that's not supposed to be there seeps in between them.

They're both in the messy process of getting naked. Gokudera ventures out first, annoyed at the sudden halt.

"So, how's this going to work?"

In Yamamoto's mind there's no doubt about the roles. He smiles mischievously.

Gokudera blushes wildly.

Gokudera stares out through the window at the city of Istanbul. There's a cruise ship docked on their side of the stretch a couple of kilometers down. The bridge that connects the Asian part of Istanbul and the European part stands in clear sight, people the size of rice grains walk across it, above the blue waters of the Bosphorus.

Gokudera's back is pressed to Yamamoto's stomach and chest; his strong arms are wrapped around him. Gokudera can feel Yamamoto's breath on the back of his neck. He's half-asleep, judging by the rhythm of his breathing.

Technically they're on Yamamoto's bed but the gap between the two mattresses is so insignificant it might as well be a big bed with marked territories.

Gokudera tries analyzing what he's feeling.

It can't be put down to words, no matter in what language he tries.

Yamamoto stirs and groans.

He's fully awake.

He hugs Gokudera closer and laughs lightheartedly.

"Come on, let's take a shower."

Gokudera doesn't feel like himself. He drifts to the shower with a new lightness about him that he's never felt before. He doesn't care about his nakedness–or Yamamoto's, for that matter–at all. It's a new kind of intimacy that Gokudera never thought himself capable of.

He laughs as Yamamoto shampoos his silver hair and Yamamoto shivers as Gokudera rubs bodywash between his collarbones and on the small of his back.

They even towel each other's hair dry.

Back in the room they start changing into their suits.

Gokudera takes one last look at Yamamoto as he adjusts the waistline of his underwear and combs through his spiky hair.

_What_ – Gokudera spins his storm ring around – _have I done?_


End file.
